


Once.

by RubyFiamma



Series: Alter End. [1]
Category: Gangsta. (Manga)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Guilt, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inline with canon, M/M, Major Character Injury, Regret, Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:30:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4246065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/pseuds/RubyFiamma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"It's... It's not my blood."</i> </p><p>Delico isn't aware of what he's done, <i>who</i> he really is until it's too late. Being under the thumb of Daniel Monroe has it's consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tastewithouttalent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Tags](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4035787) by [tastewithouttalent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent). 



**Once.**

* * *

He doesn't think before he moves, he just does. It's with snap-quick reflexes that he rips his gun from it's holster and aims it at the men in front of them. And Erica. Erica's there too... but it's not really Erica, is it. Things are never once what they seem.

His target is Ivan. That _pig._ That waste of human flesh and bone and everything Delico's _not_ but he can't physically pull the trigger, even when he wills his finger to squeeze over the mechanism it doesn't move. He's begging Monroe, _please boss just give the order,_ except it isn't command that rings clear in his ears, it's cruel taunts and laughter and _disgusting_ _,_ _filthy_ _,_ _vile_ things about his sister that makes Delico scream, point his gun and prepare to shoot, certain this one time he'll be able to surpass the laws ingrained in his tainted blood.

It's not even a conscious thought that Delico pulls the trigger with. His finger has been wrapped around the piece of curved plastic for the duration of his and Monroe's exchange, and though he's quivering in seething anger his finger never snaps the trigger. It's like the two melded into one and took on a form all it's own, unresponsive to command from Delico's frayed nerves.

There are suddenly fingers gripping into his shoulder, digging into flesh to later leave fingerprints of black and blue; a horrid reminder in hindsight. Delico's not even sure what's transpiring as he tips precariously, the ground moving out from beneath his feet and Yang's scarf blinds him as it spirals through the air like a crimson flag.

"Yang!" he hears himself screaming, and the air inside his lungs is burning, on the verge of combustion — _dammit_ _move_ _!_ The other's gun is pointed right at Monroe and Delico doesn't know anything anymore, he's reeling from the shock still; breathing in putrid air and huffing out the toxicity that's poisoning his blood.

It hasn't touched the ground when Delico catches the sneaking smirk that curls across Monroe's face and all he sees is that _fucking_ red scarf, waving like a _muleta_ at the beginning of a bullfight and Delico's finger finally presses the trigger, feels the gun jerk and recoil in his hand before squeezing off another round. There's something in his mind that shatters, like a disconnect beyond reality and he's not really here, he's watching through his own eyes but it's not really him — it _can't_ be.

He's not sure how many shots he fires, all he hears is the ringing in his ears and the _ping_ of each shell hit the clodded dirt beneath his feet. Delico is confused because the men he shot are still standing but there is something else, a blur of gray and gold and something warm spatters across his cheeks and it's then that something clicks inside his mind, like pieces of two dimensions falling into place to create one reality.

Monroe is talking but Delico isn't listening. His gun is still smoking as he watches Yang fall forward, elegant in his movement, like someone's hit the slow-motion option for this particular frame in time. Delico suddenly can't breathe at all, like the atmosphere is thick with noxious gas. His throat and lungs are clenching, turning themselves inside out as they fall victim to asphyxia. He's barely aware of his surroundings when he hears the crumble of the building in front of him as Nicolas crushes into the structure. There's the kick-off; Nicolas is above Monroe's head, katana gleaming like bone in the moonlight and Delico's hand is trembling with involuntary will at an unspoken command as he points his gun at Nicolas; one more shot echoes through the silence but it isn't from his gun.

There are blades raining through the sky and Nicolas is down and growling at Monroe's feet and Erika is too calm, and Mikhail is wailing and Ivan is laughing but Yang is silent. Yang is silent and still, sprawled out and covered in shining crimson. Delico feels the gun slip out of his quivering hands like the word of denial slips off his tongue, as if the number of times he repeats it will be able to rewind the moment and make this all go away.

" — like I was graced with quite the _kind_ Twilight —"

"No," he whispers, finally able to take a breath but it sears the inside of his lungs, scorches the back of his throat and tears are burning in the wells of his eyes. "No, no, _n-no_... This can't be." His breath is coming faster now, in huffs that drown out any other sound and the air churning inside his lungs rips it's way up his throat like wildfire each time he exhales. "This... wasn't what I meant to do."

He reaches out to touch the soaked fabric of Yang's gray suit, curls his fingers against the cold reality. "You're wrong," he says to the men above him, the sound wrenching wet from his throat. "Yang, I — I am —" He chokes, can't say the word that catches under the lump in his throat. Everything in him is telling him to curl over the body that lay at his knees; _I'm_ sorry _— Yang — this isn't what I wanted to do_ —

There's more noise coming from the men above but Delico's too focused on the press of his hand to the breadth of Yang's back in hopes of feeling some sign of life but all he gets is the sticky warmth smacking wet against his palm. His hand slides down Yang's back as he braces himself against the dirt, the entire world is spinning underneath him. He can feel the other's blood heavy on his skin, a stigma of his sin but he can't bear to wipe it off. He has to wear it like a brand so that everyone can see _he's_ _the_ _one_ _who_ _did_ _this_.

" — of your own free will —"

Delico's only picking up pieces of the conversation now, there's an unbearable pain in his chest, weight crushing against his ribs and he wants to reach for the smooth texture of Yang's dark hair, feel the warmth of the other's body against his own, see the glow of gold back in his pallid skin but it's just too late.

" — you're just _beasts_."

 _I'm_ _just_ _a_ _beast. A monster. An abomination._ _  
_

He knows, _fuck_ , he _knows_ _—_ no compassionate human could ever do this, he's nothing but poison in a shell, an  _interloper_  in the realm of _humans;_ this is not a place he belongs.

He can hear the child screeching in the distance, can hear his sister's name carried out across the frigid chill of wind that bites through his skin. Delico can already feel Yang's heat fading and there's never been a moment in his life he's ever felt so alone and so helpless. What good is this strength and power if he can't use it to save the ones he loves?

Delico can't remember how long it's been when he hears the echo of car doors clacking open or who it is that drags him away from Yang's unmoving body. He does remember the shrill of noise, buzzing and screaming and yelling and so many questions he's not capable of answering. His eyes only follow the patterns of blood seeping into his skin and his legs shake underneath him as he traipses along the alleyway until he's being tugged in a different direction and shoved inside a car.

There's a flurry of motion and faces he recognises. Galahad and Marco try to stop the bleeding; they're all over Yang, pressing and crushing and yelling and all Delico wants to do is rest the other's head in his lap and ride in silence, stroke the other's cheek and say goodbye. Say he's _sorry_ because none of this was his intention. But not now, it isn't the time.

He follows Galahad into Theo's, he's carrying the weight of Yang's body — the weight of Delico's sin — to an exam table. Delico can no longer stand, there's a surface somewhere he collapses on, unable to watch the doctor fail at saving Yang's life and dreading the moment they all give up.

The blood on his hands is still ruddy, the blood that's seeped through the white of his shirt is dark and tarnished, congealed and sticking to his skin. The fresh salt stings his cheeks as they no doubt leave streaks through the blood on his face and beyond the blur he can see his hands shaking. Still.

" — lico-chan... Delico."

The sound is stern, drawn out like grit on sand paper and when Delico looks up, Worick is above him, tangled hair framing the sharp lines of his face.

"Show me your wound," he says as he crouches down in front of Delico. "We should stop the bleeding for now." He takes Delico's hand in his own, his fingers are cold, and he searches for some sign of injury without prevail.

"It's not mine," Delico finds himself saying, slow like the words are a lie curdling on his tongue. He'd give anything for them to be just that. He takes a breath, drawing into himself full of shame and regret and _hurt_ _._ If he could just recreate the warmth of Yang's arms around him, just the simple heat of the other's touch, maybe things wouldn't seem like such a distant dream, but he has nothing but the imprint of a ghost and the cold chill of his own fingers pressing into his arms. "This is... not my blood," he tells Worick. He doesn't wait for the other's reaction; instead he rises and turns, trudges up the steps like he's ascending the heavens even though he knows entry will be denied. Things are never once what they seem.

The roof seems like a good place to contemplate his fate.


End file.
